Questions
by Lament
Summary: This is a series of mini-drabbles about the death of a character. WARNING: Death of a canon character, suicide, and a hint of Nick-Greg slash


Title: Questions

Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there would be an obligatory shirtless Nicky scene in every episode. :D

Author's Notes: This is a one-shot. Don't expect a prequel or a sequel. I just needed to write this. It's basically a series of connected mini-drabbles.

Warnings: Death of canon character, suicide, a hint of slash, and probably my first ever unhappy ending. Gasp!

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His cap and jacket are still flung where he left them…over one of the kitchen chairs. He always left them there so he could find them in case he got an early callout, or if he was disoriented from a lack of sleep because he'd already pulled a double, and he still had to coax himself out of bed for his regular shift. 

Everything else in the house is pretty much in order. Bed's made. Dishes are clean. Laundry's done. Brass wonders out loud why the guy bothered to do his laundry. What difference did dirty jeans make at a time like this? And anyway, the container of detergent is nearly full. He probably just bought it. Why go out and buy a full container of laundry detergent if you're not going to be around to use it? That's crazy. It's just nuts. Brass goes on and on about the jeans and the laundry detergent until Catherine tells him to shut up already. He doesn't want to shut up, really, but he takes the hint and takes a walk.

Catherine's thankful at first for the Brassless silence. She uses it to hold a mental conversation with the parents, a rehearsal for the real thing. If she can sketch it out in her head, it'll be easier. It'll be like reading from a script. She hopes his dad answer the phone, not his mom. If his dad answers the phone, the conversation will be calm and efficient, and her job will be done. There. It's settled. She has a script and, she has her audience picked out. That was easier than she thought. After a while, the conversation in her head starts to boom louder and louder until she misses Brass's rambling about detergent. Maybe she should go find him. See if he's all right.

The bathroom looks great. There's a bottle of window cleaner on the side of the bathtub. The only window in the room is pretty much spotless. Huh. Warrick's never seen the bathroom this clean before, and he's been here lots of times. He doubts the guy ever cleaned that window before now. What? Warrick didn't rate a clean bathroom window? Is that too much to ask? A clean window? Bastard. Warrick starts to leave the bathroom, still feeling more than a little bitter, but then he stops, turns around, and shows that window how he really feels.

This is Sara's comfort zone. She has something to do now, something to keep her occupied. This is good. Well, it's not good, but it beats standing in the bedroom, watching David try to keep from throwing up. Okay, so, well, Warrick's going to need stitches. He's bleeding pretty good, but at least it's just his hand. This wound can be fixed. Sara tells everyone to be careful because there's glass on the floor in the bathroom, and then she guides Warrick to the door. When she gets to the door, though, she doesn't want to leave. She can't help but feel like she's forgetting something, like maybe there's something else here she needs to do. She doesn't know how long she stands there before Grissom tells her to go.

The bedroom is the only room that's messy, but that's to be expected. The bedroom is where Grissom finds the note lying a few feet from the body. At first, he doesn't want to pick it up. Part of him thinks it'll explode or disintegrate, even though he knows that's illogical. He points it out to David, who nods, pale and green at the same time. He wants to make sure David sees the note, just in case logic takes a holiday, and the note _does_ disintegrate. He wants a witness that there was a note, and therefore, a reason for all of this. There needs to be reason. Taking a breath, Grissom unfolds the paper and looks for a neatly written explanation, something that he can mull over and eventually make sense of. But Grissom doesn't find an explanation, neatly written in pen. And he's left to wonder—how will he ever make sense of a blank piece of paper?

No one asks why Greg knows where Nick keeps his will, or how he knows where to find the first aid kit when Sara needs it. And no one asks why Greg's picture is on the nightstand next to Nick's bed. Maybe no one notices these things, or maybe these things are just confirmations of something everyone already suspected. For the longest time Greg sits on Nick's couch, his eyes glazed over and blank and his hands shaking in a way they haven't shaken since after the explosion in his lab. Eventually, he notices the flurry of activity in the living room, and he fleetingly wonders why everyone is here. Shouldn't they all be at work? He asks Catherine that very question when she walks over and sits down next to him. She doesn't answer, though, which Greg thinks is kind of weird. Instead, she just shakes her head and wraps her arms around him.


End file.
